I saw you,
Again.
We took pictures,
Again.
I wanted to hold you,
Again.
But you made it clear
I never would
Again.
And now I’m weightless
In Western Mass,
And I’m ready
To try to fly,
Again.

The house on Hillside Ave is massive. It’s three stories tall, with a turret at the top and a set of stone lions at the front steps to greet welcomers and ward off intruders. It used to house 5 people, but now only 4, and even Christmas and Thanksgiving don’t always live there every year.

Before, the gardens the lined the house were beautiful, lining the foundation with more colors than in a Crayola box. At the roots of the flowers was a base of fresh cut grass, offering soft spots to sit and look at the clouds on slow summer days.

That was when Nana was still alive, and when Nana took care of it all. After days spent outside in the sun she’d come in and carefully wash the green of the plants off all her fingers and drink cold lemonade on the porch.

My father tried to take over the gardening, but it’s not the same. He doesn't wash his hands as carefully and doesn't drink lemonade, instead a cold beer from the cooler downstairs. Now the flower beds are a little sadder, the colors not as bright and dark patches of emptiness are seen amongst the once thriving flora. The flowers aren’t quite as happy when he tends to them. His hands just aren’t as green.

I left the town and the girl I loved to come to college when I was 18. The night before I left, she came over and cried, which made me cry, so we cried together about being torn apart by the unloving forward movement of time. The next day she watched as my parents packed my car and drove away, and she texted me the entire time.

I still go home sometimes, for weekends, vacations and holidays, but I never see the girl I once loved. She loves someone else now, and I love no one, and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to go. I’m not even sure I love the town anymore, but I realize it’s prettier than I gave it credit for. However, when I go there now, the friends aren’t around, the school no longer my own and when I walk my dog on the farms the regulars look at me with an hint of distrust, as if I’m a foreigner in their land.

The scenery could be on a postcard somewhere. “Welcome to Small-Town Massachusetts, the town that soon forgets.”

Auntie Jean got a gun and she loves it. She calls it her little .38 special, and she carries it around in a concealed harness under her jacket all the time. She even brought it to Christmas once.

Auntie Jean also loves wine, and she carries that around a lot too, concealed in a paper bag so crinkled it looks like a burlap sack with a glass neck with a cork in it sticking out. She brings that to Christmas every year.

I drank a bottle of wine with a friend, and after a time he said
"I haven't even figured myself out, I don't know what to tell you,"
To which I replied, in time,
"Sometimes, I fear we never do."

Many days,
I live in the present,
And I am content,
Happy even,
Until I'm reminded
That the future is coming,
And I must prepare.
I must prepare,
Because tomorrow is coming
And holds
Endless opportunities
I have yet to comprehend.

I used to spend my weekends on a lake called Ossipee, somewhere up in New Hampshire. During the day we’d spend hours in the crystal waters, working on our tans and watching as our skins turned a shade of golden brown. At night we’d make campfires and roast marsh mellows and play loud music until the old neighbors next door told us to keep it down.

I would ride my bike down to the campsite where my friend Brian’s parents had a place, and we’d ride all over the grounds or swim the lengths of the beaches. When we had money we would go to the general store and stock up on sweets and pizza, and sometimes our parents would bring us out on the boats to explore new sections of the lake.

We did this every weekend until the day that Brian’s brother fell off his boat and drown under the dock. After that, Brian’s parents didn’t bring him up on the weekends as often, but during the week his mother would sit in their doorway and cry, and sometimes when I rode by seeing if Brian was around I’d hear her saying William’s name.